


whole, in parts

by notimeforemotion



Series: a spectacular sort of whiplash [5]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Disabled Character, Eggsy is Galahad, Gen, Harry is Arthur, Human Trafficking (mentioned), Injury Recovery, Post-TGC, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, bs-ing my way through technology, merlin drinks a fair bit of tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-22 10:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12479164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notimeforemotion/pseuds/notimeforemotion
Summary: Would you rather lose your arms or your legs?Merlin, when faced with the question, would choose to give up his legs. Every single time.It doesn’t make losing them any easier.





	1. Chapter 1

Would you rather lose your arms or your legs?

It’s a question Merlin had pondered many times before, always from the abstract, as he adjusted agent’s files to reflect the injuries they sustained. He’s seen many come and go over his years with Kingsman, leaving due to various ailments and other reasons, and with every single one he’s asked himself if he would leave for that reason. If he would be able to manage PTSD, or loss of limb, or any other given thing that can possibly happen.

Merlin’s had time to think about it, as such. Of course, the question is nowhere near his mind as he belts out John Denver with one foot on a landmine, but when it comes down to it he’d always choose losing his legs over his arms, every time. He loses his legs, he can still do the job that he loves if he recovers. If he loses his arms—well, prosthesis isn’t quite up to the snuff he’d like for it to be. And, functionality aside, his hands have things like fingers and fingerprints that are wonderfully useful.

So yes, he would choose to give up his legs.

It doesn’t make losing them any easier.

 

-

 

When he wakes up, he does not remember.

He does not remember, but he remembers Ginger, and as he takes stock of his surroundings as best as he can (posh room, soft sheets, mattress he’s sinking into) he says, “What happened?”

His left ankle aches, but no stretching is relieving the pain. Ginger _tap tap taps_ away on her tablet for a few moments, and just as Harry says, “Hello, Merlin,” Merlin reaches for his left ankle to massage it and realizes it’s not there. 

“H—”

Harry’s name gets stuck on the lump in his throat. Panic doesn’t quite well up, but it’s close. The thing about Kingsman is that they do their best to train the fear right out of you, and Merlin is not afraid but he does not have a left ankle _nor a right ankle_ and the permanence is—

It’s— 

“We can have this conversation now,” Harry says gently, “or Agent Whiskey has a sedative that will help you rest some more.” 

Agent Whiskey? Merlin looks at Ginger, and she nods, which—that’s good, for her, she’s gotten the field position that she wanted, except what kind of a field position is looking after him? How long has she been here?

“I’m afraid I’m going to need an answer, my friend.”

Merlin shakes his head slightly, then looks at the tablet where Harry’s face is looking back at him. He ignores his legs as well as he can. “No,” he says. “I’m…let’s do this now.”

“As you wish,” Harry says.

 

-

 

The first time Merlin sees Tilde _properly_ , Eggsy’s not even in the country.

True, it’s only because they’re not in the _same_ country. Eggsy is back in England and the rest of Europe and all over the place, trying to stabilize Kingsman with Harry while simultaneously making sure the world doesn’t take the piss any more than it already has, and Merlin is recuperating in Sweden, or so he’s told. He’s a “special guest of the Swedish royal family”, and his surprise must show on his face because Ginger smiles at him.

“It seems unbelievable, I know. We needed to take you to a safe, discrete place. Kingsman didn’t have the resources to handle it, Kentucky was too far away for the immediacy of the surgery required.”

“I fail to see how Sweden plays into it,” Merlin says, brow creasing.

Ginger shrugs. “It was Eggsy’s idea. How’s the pain today?”

“Manageable.” He lost both his legs from just above the knees down. They try to talk to him about prosthetics every now and then, but Harry’ll get it figured out because that’s what Harry does. Merlin’s just here to—get better.

He has no idea how _Eggsy_ ties to _Sweden_ , but he is here to get better.

Then Tilde pokes her head into her room one morning when he’s supposed to be sleeping. She clearly doesn’t mean to intrude, or to even find him _awake_ , but he looks up from his book with a raised eyebrow and she ducks her head out as quickly as she’d looked in. 

He hadn’t known the name from memory, but he knows that Princess. He’s seen parts of that Princess he has no business seeing, but V-Day was a long time ago. It was two legs ago.

Eggsy, apparently, wasn’t as willing to let it go.

There are rules against this in Kingsman regulations, and if Tilde’s not-so-quiet whispers of, “ _I will not ask him anything of the sort, Eggsy, Harry said not to disturb him_ ,” then it must be quite serious between the two of them. Kingsman agents are discouraged from having as few connections to the outside world as possible; the family that they’re born with is difficult enough to manage, which is why secrecy is the first thing that’s impressed upon them.

Two months ago, Merlin would’ve been righteously bothered about it. Now, he can’t be buggered to care.

 

-

 

Three weeks after he wakes up, and four pairs of potential prosthetic legs later, Merlin sits in on Ginger overseeing Tequila and Eggsy on a mission to Thailand. Amelia’s been doing most of the handling, from what he understands, but Harry must’ve thought this one needed a more special touch. Somebody else has managed to synthesize Poppy’s dancing disease (Merlin wonders if they’re ever going to manage to get away from it completely), and Eggsy and Tequila need to either contain the stash or ruin it.

Harry probably just wants him to start getting used to this sort of thing again. Merlin can’t say that he complains; sitting around in a bed all day with nothing to do, waiting for his body to get with the program, has taken its toll on him.

He’s silent as he watches. Ginger’s cool voice is quite effective in cutting Eggsy down whenever he gets too snarky, Tequila’s resulting snickers loud through the speakers. The Swedes have been generous in their setup, offering them the best technology that they have on hand. Merlin’s going to have to ask Harry how much the Swedish monarchy even know about Kingsman, but for now he’s fine letting Ginger handle all of the questions from them.

Eggsy knows he’s awake. Merlin sat in on an agent’s meeting two weeks ago. But he hasn’t spoken to the lad since, and he knows it’s been driving Eggsy completely mad. If the casual conversation he has with Tilde when she brings him his tea wasn’t enough, the way that Eggsy isn’t quite settled under Ginger’s guidance would give it away. He trusts her plenty, and is clearly willing to give her the benefit of the doubt even when he doesn’t see how what she’s suggesting is going to work, but when the mission’s successfully completed he says, “Y’ain’t Merlin, but you’ll do in a pinch, Whiskey.”

Ginger smiles wryly, even if Eggsy can’t see. “Good job, Galahad.”

“Except for the manners bit at the end,” Merlin says, but he doesn’t even remember reaching forward to put his hand on his microphone’s button. “That could use some work.”

Eggsy’s breath stutters for a second, but he bounces back as quick as ever. “Give me a break, guv, nothing could ever come close to your soothing Scottish brogue—”

“You’re sure he didn’t hit his head, Tequila?” Merlin muses.

“About as sure as I can be,” Agent Tequila says. Through Eggsy’s glasses he can see the smile on Tequila’s face. “It’s good to hear your voice again, Merlin.”

“Don’t except it too often, still on the mend. Harry’s going to be on my back as soon as he finds out I spoke at all, I’m just supposed to be ‘observing’. Good work, agent.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Merlin wheels away from the desk. His hands are adjusting to the work of operating a wheelchair as good as he could’ve expected them to, the calluses growing thicker. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to go catch a nap while you debrief—”

“Hang on,” Eggsy butts in. “You can’t just start talking and then _leave_ like that. At least promise you’ll stop dodging my calls, yeah? It’s been driving Tilde mad—”

“It’s been driving _you_ mad, and _you’ve_ been driving Tilde mad,” Merlin corrects. “Stop being a little arse about it and contact me directly instead of trying to get to me through her, and see the difference it’ll make.” 

Eggsy squawks, and the door shuts behind Merlin on the sound of Tequila’s boisterous laughter.

 

-

 

( _He dreams._

_More often than any of them know, more often than he hints at. He dreams in the vivid green of the Cambodian jungle, lit by a bright sun on a backdrop of the blue sky. He dreams to the sound of a quiet snick and occasionally off-key John Denver._

_He dreams so hard that he wakes up sweating like he was there all over again, legs aching as he swallows back the screams._ )

 

-

 

Physical therapy is a pain in his arse. 

Merlin was fit to begin with, but now there’s more exercises involved. Exercises to tighten his core, buff up his arms, help them to handle the extra strain while they wait for him to finally take to a pair of prosthetics. They parade in set after set of them, a weird kind of Noah’s ark thing, but none of the pairs that Merlin have tried settled on him just right. They leave his legs sore and raw, for all that they’re top of the line equipment. Prototypes from all over the world are brought in, including Asia.

None of them are— _him_. None of them fit the way he wants them to.

He wants his legs back, but that’s not possible. 

Morning tea breaks with Tilde continue. She starts to teach him small Swedish phrases, and on one memorable occasion he has breakfast with her and her parents. Eggsy is one of the main topics of conversation, which doesn’t surprise Merlin at all—the night that he had dinner with them was the night that the missiles hit. Apparently, some of his behaviour was…out of character. 

Merlin’s not even sure Tilde knows the entirety of what transpired that night. Maybe she’s only aware of what Eggsy lost.

Of what they all lost.

He sits in on more missions that Ginger oversees, gradually taking over more and more responsibilities until she hands them over to him entirely two months after. It’s not a save the world operation, just busting a human trafficking ring that popped up on Kingsman’s radar due to the kidnapping of a young Countess, but Merlin’s hands still tremble.

He lays them flat on the desk. “You’ve got two hostiles to your right in the hall coming up, Galahad.”

The glasses nod with Eggsy. “Should I dispatch them?”

“Unconscious, not dead. Please keep a low profile for as long as you can. Percival,” the new Percival, a young man from Devon with soft smiles and reflexes like lightning, poached from right underneath MI6’s nose because he’d be wasted there, “will be at your location shortly with his team. Don’t bugger this up while you’re on your own.” 

Eggsy passes the hallway with the hostiles easily, only knocking them out when they start to pursue him. Very little noise is made in the confrontation; Eggsy’s refining his technique. At this rate, he may just overshadow Harry. “You say that like you expect me to fuck it up.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust.”

“That’s a load of bullshit if I ever heard it, Merlin.”

“Galahad—”

Eggsy’s noticed what Merlin has and cuts around a corner quick so that he can surprise the hostile on his tail with a pretty solid punch. “ _Fuck_ , that one hurt,” Eggsy says, shaking his hand out after the punch lands. “Doing this with guns is a lot easier, Merlin. And they’re all pieces of shit, anyways, consorting with traffickers—” 

“Stay focussed, Galahad,” Merlin replies, searching the map for the easiest route to the targets with the least hostiles involved. “Get the victims, then we’ll worry about clean up. Get back in the hallway you were just in, then take the third left.”

Eggsy mumbles something under his breath, but it’s too low for Merlin to make sense of it. Merlin tunes it out, like he normally does; if it were anything important, Eggsy would make sure that he could hear it. He doesn’t quite jog down the hallway, but his pace is definitely brisk. He takes the third left. “Alright, guv, now what?”

“Take the second hallway to the right, and then we wait for Percival to get into position.”

“You joking?”

“Do as you’re told, Galahad,” Merlin says evenly, though, yes, Percival’s lack of communication is almost worrying. Not quite yet—Eggsy’s early, there’d been fewer hostiles then he thought they’d have to worry about—but the longer that Eggsy sits and does nothing, the longer something is more likely to go wrong. Merlin might not always approve of Eggsy’s methods, but the lad gets the job done. Merlin trusts him implicitly, regardless of whether Eggsy thinks he’s telling the truth or not.

It’s everyone else in the building that Merlin doesn’t trust. 

Eggsy leans against the wall, giving Merlin a lovely view of the grey wall opposite him. “How long d’ya think it’ll be?”

“Not much longer, now. Percival has to lock down the higher ups and put a stop to any resistance on that end. Then he’ll come help you free the hostages.”

“So what am I doing here?”

“Playing the part of bodyguard. If anyone comes to nab a hostage, you’re to make sure that hostage doesn’t get taken."

“Nothing, then,” Eggsy says, and Merlin rolls his eyes even though, yes, that’s the sum of it. “Hey Merlin, what do you think are cooler, mountains or waterfalls?”

“I suppose it depends on what you’re planning on doing with them, Eggsy.”

A low beep sounds as Percival checks in. “Merlin, we’re in position. What kind of a reception will we be getting?”

Merlin changes the camera view to the main offices that Percival and his crew are crouched outside of. A pain shoots up his right leg, and his hands tense until it passes. “Fifteen hostiles inside,” Merlin says, voice still a little thin, “three innocents. Most of them look to be armed, so proceed with _caution_ , Percival. Just because your suit is bulletproof does not mean your head is.” 

“Yes, sir."

“Opening the door in three…two…” 

Merlin types in the command, and the lock on the door disengages with the people in the room none the wiser. Percival signals to his team, and then they burst into the room. 

“Merlin?” Eggsy asks. “What’s happening?”

“Percival is engaging the hostiles at his objective.”

“Oh, cool.” Eggsy looks down, and his camera fills up with the fantastic view of him picking away a small piece of skin from beside his fingernail. “Seriously, Merlin. Mountains or waterfall?” 

“Is this a good time for this, _Galahad_?” Merlin says thinly before taking a sip of tea.

“It’s just that Roxy thinks waterfalls would be perfect, but mountains are fucking _ace_ —”

“For _what_ , lad.”

Eggsy pauses. “Tilde’s not with you, is she?”

“This is a Kingsman mission. Classified. _No one_ is with me.” 

“Oh, right,” Eggsy says, like he somehow forgot. “I’m just trying to figure out how to propose to her, is all.”

“ _Eggsy_ —”

Percival, completely unaware on his own channel for the moment, says, “Hostiles contained, sir.”

“Excellent, Percival,” Merlin says, glaring at Eggsy’s glasses feed. “Send a team to Galahad’s position and we’ll work on getting the rest of the hostages. Do not leave the room unattended—there are bound to be other surprises. Please make sure that any survivors are _secure_ , Percival, you don’t need a repeat of Istanbul.” 

“No, I do not,” Percival mutters. The post-mission report did not paint Percival in a good light in the least; one of the hostiles that Percival had subdued almost got the jump on him with a wire thin blade to his throat. “Team one, head to Galahad. Team two, here with me.”

“Some of Percival’s men are en route, Galahad,” Merlin says. “Please focus on the mission.”

“It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do—”

“Five hostiles are approaching your location,” Merlin says blandly, and Eggsy says, “Are you shitting me,” but it soon becomes clear that Merlin is not and Eggsy swears as he dodges and then disarms the first assailant.

He loves it when things work out like that.

“Merlin,” Percival says suddenly, “there’s a briefcase here with a concerning payload.” 

Merlin’s brow furrows as he turns his attention to Percival. Sometimes handling a mission with Eggsy _plus_ can feel like herding cats. “Specifically?” 

Percival consults with one of his team members, and then he says, “It looks to be a prototype of a microchip, sir, but we can’t tell if they were manufactured here or delivered.”

Merlin pinches the bridge of his nose. “Take the briefcase with you. Contact Arthur.”

“Yes, sir.”

The last time microchips were involved, Richmond Valentine was trying to purge the world of the scourge of humanity via violence. Microchips found at a human trafficking compound cannot mean anything good.


	2. Chapter 2

It can’t last forever. 

It’s probably for the best, honestly. Merlin can only do so much from Sweden, and if Harry was hoping for him to take to a pair of prosthetics before bringing him back to England, well, they can’t afford to wait.

“I need you back here, Merlin,” Harry says apologetically, like he’s worried about bringing Merlin back too soon. “It’s time.”

“Is it about the payload?” Merlin asks.

“Yes.”

Merlin’s not surprised, and he’s not about to argue. His legs still hurt every now and then, phantom pain menacing his nerves, but Merlin’s still got his hands, and his mind, and if Harry thinks that the microchips are a big enough threat to bring Merlin back properly then he must be needed.

 

-

 

( _The night before he goes back, he jolts awake in the middle of the night with the memory of smoke and burnt flesh stinging his nostrils. His chest heaves with his breaths as he blinks back tears and tears and tears, hands fisting into the blankets._ )

 

-

 

The next time Tilde goes back to England, Merlin hitches a ride on her plane. They enjoy one final cup of tea on the flight, enjoying the quietness, and when Eggsy is there to pick them up at the private landing strip neither of them are surprised. He gives Tilde a little kiss, whispering something to her, and then wraps Merlin up in the best hug that he can considering the chair.

“About time,” Eggsy says into his ear, hands fisting into the back of Merlin’s cardigan.

Merlin pats Eggsy on his back, but won’t do his jacket the indignity of wrinkling it even though it would fare better than his sweater. “I was always going to come back.”

“You’ve taken your sweet time doing it.”

“The man lost both legs, Eggsy,” Tilde says from somewhere over Eggsy’s shoulder, like Eggsy somehow _forgot_ , and as Merlin wrestles down his cringe Eggsy replies, “I know, but he works with his _hands_ , doesn’t he?”

“Tactful as always, lad,” Merlin says, dropping his arms and starting to roll back because Harry would want them back at the shop as soon as possible, but Eggsy follows him and refuses to let go. “Eggsy.”

“You brought this upon yourself, bruv, now you’ve just got to wait it out,” Eggsy replies, but he gives it up less than a minute later. He steps back to beside Tilde, taking hold of her hand with a tenderness that doesn’t surprise Merlin anymore. There’s no ring on her finger yet, which means Eggsy still hasn’t figured out if mountains or waterfalls are best. “Better not keep Harry waiting, he’ll tear apart my reports for months and I’ve got no time for it.”

It’s exactly the type of punishment that would keep Eggsy on the straight and narrow, more or less, the idea of needing to do more paperwork on top of what he already has to complete. Merlin wonders how long it took Harry to realize it; the last Arthur, good as he was and may he rest in peace, couldn’t quite figure out how to effectively make Eggsy think about the consequences of his choices. “Lead on, then,” Merlin says, and Eggsy gives him a little salute before turning on his heel and heading to the cab. 

It’s the only car parked in the lot; perks of having a private airstrip accessible, Merlin supposes. When they reach it, however, Eggsy bypasses the driver’s side on the right and goes for the passenger side. Tilde gets in the back, settling in without a word to him.

There’s not a driver. “Eggsy,” Merlin starts, but Eggsy’s already ahead of him.

“It’s your cab,” he says, half climbed in. “Special ordered and everything. Should be able to drive it, unless you forgot how.”

“How am I supposed to get in?” Merlin asks.

“Registered to your fingerprints!” Eggsy calls back. “Harry’s idea. Touch the door handle, see what happens.”

“Eggsy—" 

But the lad climbs all the way in and shuts the door, miming to Merlin that he can no longer hear him as Tilde rolls her eyes at him. Resigned, Merlin rolls forward and holds his right hand under the door handle.

The lock, predictably, clicks open, but the seat behind the steering wheel folds up and back as the car lowers itself to ground level. Tilde, sitting in the seat behind the driver, doesn’t seem to have been bothered in the least. “It’s not an easy fix,” Eggsy says, a bright smile on his face. “It can be permanently, if you never pick new legs, but your wheels will lock in when you’re driving and the belt’s still functional. Handbrake and everything are there, but there’s foot pedals if you ever have…feet.” 

Merlin kind of tunes him out; he works with his hands, so he lets himself figure it out as Eggsy’s voice lulls him in the background. It’s much the same as a regular Kingsman cab, except for the modifications that have been made especially for him. Now that he’s in and the doors shut, the cab is back up to regular height.

It’s one of the first times since he’s woken up that he hasn’t felt…completely out of place. And then Roxy says in his ear, “He’s shite at explaining things, isn’t he?”

Merlin’s lips quirk up. “Lancelot,” he acknowledges quietly. “He’s excited. Let him be.”

“I’ll send a map to the new tailor shop to your glasses.” 

“Much appreciated.”

“Are you just going to let him…prattle on?”

Merlin turns the cab on and pulls onto the road. Eggsy doesn’t skip a beat, moving on to describing the new tailor shop and all of the things that have happened in London since he’s been gone. “He’ll tire himself out eventually.”

 

-

 

The new shop is not like the old shop. Nothing ever could be, the nostalgia rings true, but what sticks out to Merlin the most is that everything in the new shop is strangely wheelchair accessible. Eggsy won’t claim responsibility at all, shrugging as he and Tilde get into a different cab and go off to who knows where, but there’s a twinkle in Harry’s eye as they shake hands that not even the most neutral expression could get rid of.

“We’re still working on a replacement for the mansion, I’m afraid,” he says as he and Merlin tour around, space more than enough room to navigate the chair through. “We have a few locations we’re keeping an eye on, but given the ongoing recruitment and the very last of Poppy Adams’ stash coming out, we’ve had our hands a bit full.” 

“It’s alright, Harry. It all looks perfect. You’ve done good work.”

Harry doesn’t quite preen, but the twinkle in his eye spreads to the rest of his expression. “If you’ll follow me to the back, we have a present for you.”

A present? Good Lord, Merlin just got back. “Harry, you really shouldn’t have—”

“No arguing, Merlin,” Harry says, holding up a hand. He leads Merlin through the maze of hallways in the back, stopping in front of a door that says it’s a storage room.

“I presume that’s not a storage room,” Merlin says.

“You would be correct,” Harry says. He nods at the door, and Merlin reaches forward to open the door. The doorknob heats for a long moment before cooling, and the door _snicks_ quietly open. “Based on Valentine’s biometric technology. This is _your_ room, first and foremost.”

Merlin’s brow furrows. “The other handlers?” 

“Have their own spaces on other floors.”

Merlin opens the door, and the lights turn on automatically once he rolls slowly inside. Against the wall to his right there’s a desk and equipment at his height, similar to what he had at the Mansion except _better_. Against the other wall is a tea set just for him, with an electric kettle and Earl Grey from the obscure tea shop in Piccadilly that he likes.

Merlin whistles lowly. “You didn’t have to do all this,” he says earnestly. He would’ve come back even if all they’d have to offer him was a closet and a computer from the year 1972. It would’ve been difficult, but he would’ve made it work. Even with Statesman’s assistance Kingsman must be strapped for money, and there are surely more important things to be spending money on. Gadgets, guns, umbrellas.

“Without you, we wouldn’t even be successful,” Harry says quietly, and it nips at something inside Merlin that insists he’s only _hero-adjacent_ but he swallows it back.

Just off the middle of the desk, next to the keyboard, is a briefcase. Merlin nods at it, rolling forward so he can get a closer look. “Have you let anyone else look at it?”

“I could say that I have everyone else working on figuring out who is manufacturing them and what, exactly, they do,” Harry says, “and I wouldn’t be wrong, but the truth is I didn’t trust anyone else. Not with you so close to returning.”

“You think it’s that large of a threat?” Merlin asks. He pops the case open and flips the lid back; inside there are ten microchips, evenly spaced, cushioned in place.

“I’ve been waiting for somebody to attempt something with microchips since Richmond Valentine’s SIM cards. They were too effective for someone to not attempt something similar.”

“Aye.”

Harry walks back to the door, sensing that Merlin’s palms are itching with the want to dig out as much from these chips as he possibly can. Before he closes the door behind him again, he says, “Have you any thought as to where you’ll be staying tonight?”

His flat is on the second floor of the building he lives in, no elevator. Harry knows that. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Merlin admits.

Harry nods, expression serious. Merlin’s sure that he already had everything planned out, but what he said cement’s Harry decision further. “Until you’ve got things figured out, you can stay at mine.” 

“Harry—”

Harry holds up a hand. “The spare bedroom on the ground floor has already been made up for you. The days have long passed where you could sleep at your desk with no consequences the next morning.”

He’s got the look on his face that says, regardless of what arguments Merlin has in this particular instance, he’s not going to win. “If you insist,” he says.

“I insist.”

“It’s just a temporary measure.” 

“Of course,” Harry replies. He smooths his hands down the front of his jacket. “I’ll let you get to work, then.” 

Marlin clears his throat before the door’s all the way shut. “Thanks, Harry,” he says, just loud enough for the other man to hear him. The door closes without a response, and Merlin smiles crookedly before he rubs his hands together and takes a chip out of the briefcase.

Time to get to work.


	3. Chapter 3

For all that Merlin would love nothing more than to lock himself in his office for as long as it takes to wrestle every secret from the mircochips that he can, there’s a conspiracy preventing him from doing so. 

He doesn’t think much of it, at first. He barely _notices_. There’s a cuppa on his desk every morning when he arrives at the tailor shop, still hot like it was just brewed, and he has no idea who’s behind it but it saves him the hassle of trying to navigate it first thing in the morning. A little out of the ordinary, but he just figures it’s Eggsy being really glad that he’s alive.

Until it keeps happening when Eggsy is out of country on a mission, but it still doesn’t rate high on his list of concerns. He doesn’t care who’s responsible for it so long as the blessed individual keeps doing it.

Harry, for all that he’s busy as Arthur, will walk with Merlin to every single one of Merlin’s physiotherapy sessions, conveniently located just down the street from the shop. His witty one-liners make Merlin push through even the worst pain—nothing is a more effective motivator than a dry, “Too much for you, old man?” from Harry Hart—and they’ll bicker about how he hasn’t chosen a set of prosthetics afterwards as he towels his face and head and neck off.

Percival—the new Percival, though as more time passes it’s getting easier and easier to drop the _new_ —drops in sporadically, nowhere near enough to be suspicious. He’s got a tech background as well, and Merlin spends his visits generally bouncing ideas off of him. Percival gives as good as he gets, bemoaning Lamorak’s inability to get out of a mission without setting off at least one explosive and keeping Merlin up to date on the rumours and betting pools.

Not that Merlin needs any help with those, he usually has a hand in helping start them, but it’s good to know that someone cares enough to keep him informed.

Most afternoons, just as he’s nearing his boiling point and ready to give every single microchip to Lamorak and sitting back to watch the fireworks, Roxy shows up. Her timing is impeccable—she can’t be around always, because she _is_ an active agent, but she just seems to _know_ when something’s about to go wrong. Every day she appears she threatens to set Harry on him if he does not go for a walk with her, but it’s never necessary. They take a cab down to Hyde Park after stopping at a Costa Coffee for one of those truly overpriced hot chocolates she enjoys, and they’ll enjoy a leisurely walk through the park until they find a bench that suits their fancy for the day. It’s never the same one twice, and Merlin appreciates the variation.

It’s on one of these afternoons—a chilly late spring day that has Merlin’s jacket collar popped up to protect his neck from the cold wind sweeping from the north—that Merlin says, “As effective as this all is, Roxy, I do need to get some work done and that happens best when I can do it without interruption.”

She takes a long sip of her hot chocolate, completely unbothered. She’s a smart girl, not so daft to think he wouldn’t have figured it out eventually. “How long have you known?”

“A few weeks now,” Merlin admits.

“How?”

“Percival used the same opening line two days in a row after he barged in to my office.” That hadn’t been as big of a tell as Percival’s small flinch when he’d realized he’d done it. A cheeky, “Top of the morning to you,” two days in a row is odd but not completely out of question, but then one of Percival’s eyes had twitched as his lips, briefly, thinned. Merlin’s been reading agents for years now, and that was enough. 

Roxy doesn’t apologize. “We don’t want you burning out right after coming back,” she says. “We don’t have a lot of information in regard to the chips yet, so they’re relatively low on the radar. They’re more meant to be…a hobby, I think.”

“Kingsman have the most curious hobbies,” Merlin says, lip quirking.

There’s a spark in her eye as she looks at him. “For tailors? Yes.”

She takes another sip, then leans back against the bench and indulges in a deep breath of the crisp air. “Seriously, Merlin, please don’t work too hard. There’s clearly more to them than meets the eye, but we don’t have much to go on right now. Arthur has it marked as important, but not urgent. You need to remember that there’s a world outside of your office, and that the purpose of your existence is more than gutting those microchips.”

“Well-spoken for a twenty-six-year-old.”

“You say that like you’re surprised.” She finishes off her hot chocolate and stands, stretching before tossing it into the nearest bin. “Ready to go back?” 

Merlin pauses, his hands halfway raised and the _yes_ warm on the tip of his tongue. This is the routine that they’ve set, and he’s comfortable in it, and she would be content to go back right now. The microchips are waiting for him, and she’s undoubtedly got some prep work she could be doing as well before she goes to Liechtenstein next week for an op. 

“Let’s stay out for a bit longer,” he says.

Roxy smiles even though her cheeks are pink from the cold, and they continue their walk in companionable silence.

 

-

 

( _Blue skies. Bright green. Quiet conversation as Poppyland looms._

_Snick._

_“what the fuck have you done?”_ )

 

-

 

With Roxy and Percival in Liechtenstein, and Eggsy off in Burma looking into another human trafficking ring with Lamorak (Merlin thinks Harry intended for Eggsy to keep Lamorak on the straight and narrow, but the glint in his eye suggested otherwise), Merlin has a little bit more time on his hands. There’s still a cuppa waiting for him on his desk every day, Harry still makes sure he gets to physical therapy every day, and afternoon walks with Roxy have been swapped out for semi-regular afternoon calls with Ginger. The calls are late enough in the afternoon that Ginger’s got time to get a cup of coffee into her back in Kentucky, and their conversation is a gentle hum in the background as he tries to coax the secrets out of the microchips.

Sometimes she makes it more difficult to concentrate than others.

“I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” she says, “but is it that you don’t…want prosthetic legs? Because we’ll leave you alone, if that’s the case.”

If he was doing anything more than simply running diagnostics on the chip (again), he’d have more to focus on. Unfortunately, at the moment, he’s not. He takes a sip of is tea. “That’s not it.” 

The truth is, Merlin does his best not to think about the state of his legs at all. He’s competent at moving the chair around now, and though he knows Harry’s place isn’t a long-term solution it’s comfortable. He’s got a place to stay and a place to work and people making sure that he doesn’t work himself to death. There’s not much time to indulge in the crisis that’s lurking on the sidelines waiting to pounce, save for the early morning dreams that twist him up inside. 

“There’s a new set coming out of Japan that looks promising,” Ginger says. “I can see if I can get a pair sent to you. Argentina is also working on something promising, but it’ll take a little longer before it moves past prototype.”

Merlin hums noncommittally, eyes on the screen as lines and lines of code run down. It’s all very normal in regard to what should and shouldn’t be present within the code of the chip itself—heavily encrypted and difficult to break into, yes, but nothing unexpected. 

A blip of a variation catches his eye. So small he almost misses it. Merlin ignores the raised eyebrow that Ginger is giving to him from an ocean away. “What do you make of this?” he asks, going back in the code to find the discrepancy and sending it to her.

There’s a small _ding_ on her end of the video less than ten seconds after he sends it. Ginger pushes her glasses up her nose, brow pinching a little bit. He continues the diagnostic as she scrolls through, rolling over to the kettle to pour some more water when it becomes clear she’s going to be nothing short of thorough.

He’s stirring the sugar in when she says, “What’s this for, Merlin?”

“I cannae tell you that,” Merlin says, going back to his desk. “This is still classified.”

“This is a tracking chip, though, right?”

If Harry wants to get cross at him for however little information he is going to reveal, they can have words later. “We believe so. They were found during the raid of a human trafficking ring.” 

“But you don’t think that’s all they are?”

Merlin hasn’t yet put words to his unease. It’s the reason he’s run the diagnostics over and over, trying to find the crack that will lead to the breakthrough. There’s no rush—it truly might just be a case of traffickers implanting the people they victimize with tracking chips—but there’s something about this that _bothers_ Merlin.

The ring kidnapped a _Countess_. That’s gutsy, even if you think you’ll never get caught, especially after what Valentine did.

“I’m not positive,” Merlin admits. “But there’s something I just don’t like about it.”

“Me too,” Ginger agrees after a beat, and Merlin exhales heavily. “I think the key is in this line of code. Otherwise, it all looks—”

“Normal,” Merlin says, distracted, running through the code again to see if he can find any other small discrepancies. “Aye.”

There’s a knowing look in Ginger’s eye. “I’ll just leave you to it then, shall I?”

He nods, and before she can completely cut the call says, “Thank you, Ginger.”

She smiles indulgently. “It’s never a problem, Merlin,” she replies, and with a quick press of the button she’s gone.

Merlin leans back for a moment, stretching his hands and his arms, then settles in at his keyboard. That little line of code is all that he’s got, but it’s a lifeline if he’s ever seen one. The sun basks his office in a golden glow as it sets, but Merlin doesn’t pay it any attention; he’s got a secret he’s about to wrench out of this chip. After weeks of having them in his possession, he’s about to blow it wide open. 

He’s about to—save the day, almost. Break the case, give them information that they’ll need to put this to bed. Take care of the threat before it’s realized. 

Hero-proper like.

He’s never been good at puzzles, but he manages to maneuver this one to his advantage. The picture comes together slowly— _you’ll want to get the outside first, then work your way in; corner pieces are your best friend_ —but once he’s gotten the framework it’s a simple matter of filling in the blanks for himself. 

He could be wrong, of course. There’s always a chance that he’s wrong. But once the picture as he thinks it might be is fully assembled in front of him, a frightening piece of technological genius, he doesn’t hesitate to tap into Harry’s office. “Merlin,” Harry says, voice interestingly thin, Merlin will have to probe him about that later, “if it’s not important, it will have to wait—”

“You don’t want to sleep on this one, Arthur,” Merlin says.

The codename does it, like Merlin knew it would. “I’ll just be a moment,” Harry says abruptly, ending the call without a goodbye, and Merlin leans back in his seat, takes off his glasses, and rubs at his eyes. His right-knee-but-not-his-right-knee pulses with a short burst of pain, but Merlin manages to ignore it. In the face of these fucking microchips, he has more important problems.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry might’ve been a reluctant Arthur, but he is by far the best Arthur that Merlin’s ever served under.

Arthur was always meant to be a more involved role—the King of Camelot never just sat back and let his knights handle everything, pushing proverbial paperwork, not if there was something that he could do. The role of the leader of Kingsman lost that, however, and the man in the role of Arthur kept getting older and older, so by the time Chester King came around it was very much for someone who liked to sit on their throne.

Chester’s betrayal had been shocking, but not surprising. He was a terrible Arthur.

Edward, the man who came after him, was better but never meant to be a permanent solution. Not that Merlin wanted him to _die_ in the role, but he had been Bors once, pulled out of his quiet retirement to help Kingsman get back on their feet. They’d been reeling after V-Day, distrust sewn into the ranks and Harry was gone, and Edward, remembered by most Table agents and well-liked, had helped bring them back together. He was still too old to go back into the field, but he was crucial. 

Now, looking at Harry where he’s sat at the head of the table, like he’s still just Galahad with an air of _more_ , Merlin knows this is what Arthur was meant to be. Comfortable enough to deal with all the bureaucratic shite that comes with managing the resources Kingsman has at its disposal and coordinating with Statesmen when necessary, and going out into the field when required.

Harry will never ask any of his Knights to do something he wouldn’t do himself.

And that extends to Merlin. Chester had a knack for somehow making Merlin’s name sound like “Cinderella” whenever he wanted something done, the useless prick. Merlin’s underlings hadn’t been thrilled about it, and too often he had come across talks of deposing Chester and installing Merlin as Arthur in the IT department at the Mansion.

He stopped them every time. “You don’t want me as Arthur,” he told them, trying to keep his tone level even though this was all quite amusing. “That’s going to be Galahad someday. Galahad can deal with the idiots without them ever knowing he’s cross with them. I don’t have the temperament for that.”

“But it’d be so easy!” Charlotte, one of Merlin’s more promising techs, had said.

( _and Charlotte had gone down in the fire on Doomsday, they had found her and a handful of others in a collapsed emergency escape tunnel too late, Merlin should’ve done better he should’ve been better—_ ) 

Merlin had scoffed, taking a drink of tea. “Of course it would be easy. There’s a reason you lot are in my department and they aren’t—you’re the best, and we could take over before they’ve even finished their morning scones. But _that’s not what we do_ , so move along and get to work. Especially you, Trevor, before we lose Tristan to the jungle.”

The image at the last two empty chairs at the Table flickers, and Merlin and Harry exchange a bemused glance as Eggsy _finally_ appears for the meeting. He settles in his chair with a huff of breath, a mirror image to Lamorak, who tugs on his jacket before primly in his chair beside him.

Eggsy looks like shit. His elbow is on the table as he leans against his hand, eyelids drooping shut. It’s just after 7pm in London, so Eggsy’s already living in tomorrow, almost 1am in Burma. Lamorak doesn’t look nearly as tired, but if they’ve been doing observations in shifts then it must be around the time when they trade off.

From Liechtenstein, Merlin catches Roxy rolling her eyes at Eggsy. Only the once, so fast that Merlin almost misses it, but he can’t say that he disagrees with her. Eggsy has a flair for the dramatic, especially when he’s tired.

 _Especially_ when he’s bored _and_ tired.

Merlin can’t feel sorry for him, though. Not with what he (thinks) he knows about the chips, not with the immediacy of action required. Kay, Bedivere, and Gareth are all on home soil, which means that Harry’s more likely to send them than anyone else, but everyone needs to be aware of this.

That’s why Champ, Tequila, and Ginger are sitting in as well. _Everyone_ needs to be aware. 

“I trust you’ll keep Galahad awake, Lamorak,” Harry says dryly before they begin, and Lamorak nods, entirely too cheerful.

“Of course, sir,” he replies, grunting a little when Eggsy elbows him in the side. Harry nods, then looks to Merlin. A few months ago, he’d’ve been looking up to Merlin from his position at the head of the table. Now that Merlin’s still in the chair, they’re eye level.

Harry waves a hand, a strange look in his eye. “Merlin, if you would, please.”

Merlin nods, fidgeting with his clipboard for a second before bringing up the display. “Percival and Galahad recovered a briefcase containing several microchips on their last op together breaking a human trafficking ring. They’re tracking chips, manufactured by a man by the name of Ilya Vorsacek.”

Eggsy stirs at that, brow furrowing. “Who the fuck is Ilya Vorsacek?” 

“No clue,” Merlin answers honesty. “He’s relatively new to the scene, far as I can tell,” and Merlin had scoured for clues, but there’s surprisingly little to go on in regard to the man who’s making a living in the technology business, “and we have no idea where he’s getting his money from or who’s manufacturing his product.” 

“But they’re legit?”

“Aye.”

Roxy shifts in her chair. “If they’re just tracking chips, then why is it important to us?” she asks, hands clasped together in front of her the way they are when she’s thinking. “Clearly how they impact human trafficking is crucial, but there must be something more, isn’t there?”

“We believe,” Merlin says, even though it’s more just _him_ believing it and Harry taking his word for it, “that these chips have been manufactured in the same sort of family as Richmond Valentine’s sim cards.”

“What?” Eggsy asks. “Making everyone uncontrollably violent? That’s already been done once, ain’t no way that’s going to be done again. Villains like being all original and shit.” 

“You’re correct, Galahad,” Harry says. “They aren’t the exact _same_ as Valentine’s.”

Eggsy leans back, raising an eyebrow at them. “So?” he says. “I don’t mean to rush, guv, but some of us have to get a bit of shut eye—”

“Mind control,” Merlin interrupts before the vein in Harry’s forehead can get anywhere near to bursting. “There’s something about the chips that, once implanted, will allow whoever has access to accounts linked to the chips complete control over their victim.”

 A contemplative silence follows this, agents weighing Merlin’s words carefully. Harry doesn’t look any less troubled by this than he did earlier, and Eggsy now seems fully alert. “So,” Eggsy says carefully, “you think those little chips have the power to control people? Completely?”

“Yes,” Merlin says. “We’re not yet too sure how powerful they are or if the chip has the capability of indefinitely controlling someone.”

“So it’s kind of like that mind control curse from Harry Potter, isn’t it?”

Harry’s forehead pinches, even if they both know to allow Eggsy these rabbit trails. It helps him concentrate better in the long run. Merlin, for the moment, settles his clipboard over his lap. “In that they both result in mind control, yes.”

“And they’re making the rounds in human trafficking circles?" 

“At the very least, yes.”

Eggsy worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “So what do you want us to do?” he asks. Lamorak looks similarly focussed, and Merlin casts a glance at Harry. Harry, who’s sitting stock still in his chair as he thinks. Harry, who’s eyes are locked on the untouched cup of tea in front of him. 

Harry, who would never ask his agents to do something he himself wouldn’t do.

“Stay on course, Galahad,” he finally says, the role of Arthur keeping his words cool and unaffected. “Complete your mission, and if you happen to find any more of these chips, apprehend them.”

“What if they’ve already been implanted, sir?” Lamorak asks, leaning forward in his chair. Harry’s lips thin, and he looks to Merlin so quick Merlin almost misses it.

Almost.

“If you suspect that these chips are in play,” Merlin says, accepting the deferral, “then I suppose you’ll have to do some interrogation. Make no mistake—liberating anyone with a chip implanted would be a mistake.”

“Why?” Percival asks.

“Because anyone with access to the mainframe that they’re run from could override it.”

Bors purses his lips. “Do you think this Vorsacek fellow is intending on building himself an army?”

That would be the most obvious conclusion, though for _what_ , Merlin doesn’t know. Just as likely is the idea that Vorsacek is intending on undermining society via these chips—human trafficking is a soft release. It must be. There must be a plan for a more widespread release, somewhere—

But Merlin isn’t the hero. He’s here to present the information, and to support. He looks pointedly at Harry, and if Merlin didn’t know Harry so well then he’d completely miss the way that his friend’s expression falls. The downside, of course, is that he _does_ know Harry well, they’ve worked together for almost two decades, which necessitates a certain kind of closeness.

Harry reaches for his tea and takes a sip, frowning only minimally when he discovers it’s cooled. “Feel free to forward any thoughts or opinions to me.” He nods towards the Statesmen agents at the end of the table. “Thank you to our American counterparts for joining us—if you have any leads, we’d be more than glad to hear them.”

“Of course, Arthur,” Champ says. “We’ll keep you posted.” 

“Excellent.”

The three Statesmen nod, then blink out. Eggsy yawns in spite of his best attempts to swallow it down, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, guv,” Eggsy says once he can, but the corner of Harry’s mouth has already turned up in the fondest of gestures.

“Get some rest, Galahad. I’ll check in with yourself and Lamorak at a more socially acceptable time for you.”

Eggsy nods, eyes comically wide like he’s forcing them to stay open. Lamorak smirks at him, standing and then hoisting him up by the elbow. “That’s much appreciated, Arthur. There are some small children who need to get to sleep, so if you’ll excuse us…” 

Eggsy says, “You’re only a couple of years older than me, you _wanker_ —” before their feed, too, cuts out.

It’s a steadier drop off after that, and Merlin pays haphazard attention as some agents update Harry before signing off. It’s not long until Roxy’s the only one left, brow furrowed in concentration, and Merlin thinks, _She’ll be Arthur after Harry if she’s not careful_. 

Harry gives her space, a few more minutes of silence that none of them have, really, before he says, “Lancelot?”

Roxy taps her fingers on the table, then says, “Well, it can’t be that easy, can it? V-Day was easy, thanks to Richmond Valentine’s biometric technology—no one else’s palm print will work, and now that the Valentine Corporation has gone under no one is using the sim cards anyways. Poppy Adams was a little more difficult, but she coughed up the password easily enough from what the reports said. But this—”

Her brow furrows, collecting her thoughts, before she says, “This is the work of a proper villain, isn’t it?”

 Merlin doesn’t say anything, eyes on his watch; his physiotherapy starts soon, and they’ll be testing out a new pair of legs today. He’s not enthusiastic about the prospect, but there are few things he dislikes more than being late. Being _late_ means that you ran into trouble, and in their line of business that trouble can be the deadly sort.

Harry steeples his fingers in front of him. “Time will tell, Lancelot,” he says. “Everything under control in Liechtenstein?”

“Should be wrapped up within the week,” she says, but there’s a glint in her eye that suggests sooner. Definitely an Arthur candidate, someday.

“Alright,” Harry says. “Be safe. Don’t do anything Eggsy would do.”

Roxy smiles, a small thing reigned in before it gets too out of control, and then she signs off. Harry slips his glasses off, rubbing a palm over both eyes, before he puts them back on and looks at his watch. “Just in time to leave for therapy. I think that’s excellent timing on my part, Merlin, that even you will appreciate.”

“It may be on time for you,” Merlin says dryly, “but we haven’t a hope of arriving on time.”

“Nonsense,” Harry replies. “We’ll take a cab today.”

“Doesn’t that negate the need for physiotherapy?”

“We both know you haven’t yet reached the stage where you’re capable of walking to and from physiotherapy, Merlin, don’t flatter yourself,” Harry says, the corner of his mouth quirking up again in that fond way of his. “I’ll go grab your coat—”

“I can get my own damn coat, Harry.” 

“Then I’ll call a cab, shall I?” Harry says without missing a beat, like it’s going to take forever for a cab to show up even though Merlin’s cab is primed and ready to go, and Merlin shakes his head but as he turns to go get his coat there’s a smile on his face, too.

 

-

 

Merlin wasn’t ever in the field much, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have personal experience with torture.

Just the once, in Colombia in ’94. Merlin got caught in the middle of a local drug war while trying to figure out what one of them was bribing one of the Presidential candidates with. His cover was blown by one of the people he’d gotten close to, and three weeks of hell later Lancelot was shielding his eyes as he helped him back into the sunshine.

It had taken months to recover after that, and Merlin still took the odd field mission but mostly chose to stay at his desk. Merlin can do his part of saving the world from behind his computer screens. 

His experience with torture had been excruciating. Physiotherapy almost breaks him entirely.

This is the most promising pair of prosthetics, Merlin will admit a few days after the Table meeting; he’s sweating and swearing up a storm as he walks from one end of the parallel bars to the other, over and over again, willing his legs to move the way he wants them to.

His physiotherapist is nodding approvingly from where she stands off to the side, and Harry is faithfully tearing into him every time it looks Merlin might even be _thinking_ of slowing down. 

At least, until, Harry taps the side of his glasses and promptly goes white. White enough that Merlin stops where he is halfway down the bars in spite of the gentle cajoling from his physiotherapist. “Harry?” he asks softly, and Harry blinks before Arthur slips over his expression.

Oh, shite. This isn’t good.

Harry just nods once, and Merlin gets the rest of the way across the bars before sitting for the day. He settles in his chair and doesn’t take the prosthetics off right away, even though his thighs are throbbing. Harry waits until the physiotherapist gives Merlin some updated exercises to do, satisfied that he’s finally made a choice in regard to prosthesis, and after he hands Merlin a towel he says, “Lamorak and Galahad found what they were looking for.” 

More microchips. That’s bad enough news in and of itself, but there’s a pinch in Harry’s brow that suggests _more_. “Harry—”

“Lamorak got out with the payload after Galahad told him to go on ahead,” Harry says tightly. “That was six hours ago. Galahad hasn’t checked in.”

Merlin finishes towelling off, throwing it into the bin for towels before putting his glasses back on. “Harry,” he says, “we’ll get him back—”

“There are five chips missing from the case,” Harry says softly.

Five chips unaccounted for. Eggsy most likely captured.

“Bollocks,” Merlin says earnestly, and Harry says, “Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! I hope you've been enjoying all the words so far; this series is exactly what happens when "No Time For Emotion" off the Kingsman 2 soundtrack makes me have a crisis.
> 
> All this to say: the last chapter of this may be posted as early as tomorrow or as late as...next week some time. It's not yet written, and this weekend is full of family things.
> 
> Also, I was thinking about creating a fandom blog, but honestly I am terrible at compartmentalization so you can find me on Tumblr @ freshairandspearmint. I already have an idea for my next fanfic, unrelated to this series, but I'm willing to take prompts and things if you throw them at me.
> 
> I hope it's not snowing where you are, because we just got our first dump and it is miserable.


	5. Chapter 5

The thing about Kingsman is that they do their best to train the fear right out of you. 

Not that Merlin would say that he’s afraid, right now. Eggsy’s gotten himself into and out of stickier situations, often without assistance. His throat doesn’t get a little tight as Harry contacts Tilde to let her know that Eggsy will be out of contact longer than they had anticipated. He doesn’t have issues getting some rest whenever he’s bullied away from his computer, antsy to look one more time, because maybe he’ll be there this time. He doesn’t lock himself in his office, breaking apart chip after chip after chip, trying to find something that he’d missed. Trying to find something that, in hindsight, would be obvious.

Trying to uncover something that will bring Eggsy home. 

( _they’ve lost so much, living in the shadow of Doomsday_ )

Merlin wouldn’t say he’s afraid, but that doesn’t mean that he isn’t.

 

-

 

They can’t divert all of their resources to Eggsy’s recovery. As more time passes ( _as the possibility of Eggsy having a chip implanted grows greater_ ), the focus increasingly turns to shutting down this microchip threat before whatever Vorsacek is planning can move beyond the human trafficking rings. As Lancelot and Bors double back to Burma, retracing Eggsy’s steps and trying to figure out _exactly_ where they lost him, Kay is in Poland on an intel mission and Bedivere and Tristan are in South America following up a new threat.

The work never ends.

Lamorak is no worse for wear, but still needs a few days to recover. Merlin debriefs him as he convalesces in the bedroom they have set aside in the tailor shop, London bustling on in the street below them. They go over the story over and over again, trying to find any weakness in his tale, anything he might’ve missed.

“I’m sorry, Merlin,” Lamorak says when it’s clear nothing else will reveal itself. “I shouldn’t have left him.”

Merlin looks down at his clipboard. He’s been taking notes, always, but his eyes can’t focus on them. All he can see is the chair. What he gave up to keep Eggsy safe. What’s preventing him from following Harry whenever they find out where he is. “You did your best, Lamorak,” Merlin replies. “Besides, we all know how he gets when he wants to play hero.”

It’s a way that they _all_ get, to be frank. Kingsman training does its best to ensure that you are willing to lay down your life for the life of another agent. It was developed before their time but Harry perfected it during his time as a field agent. Merlin was merely doing as his training dictated in the Cambodian jungle.

( _heart thudding steady as they looked down, as he retrieved the spray, as he activated it, as he counted down, as he **shoved**_ —)

“Yes, sir,” Lamorak says. His brow furrows a moment later. “Do you think they’d actually do it? Implant him with a chip, and all?”

Lamorak was training to be a member for the British Special Forces before he was recruited. They’d had their eye on him before Doomsday and weren’t planning on bringing him in so soon, but necessity had dictated it. He’s not as experienced in the field, and he’s new to this underworld. He hasn’t seen how dark people can get.

Merlin tugs on the sleeves of his cardigan. “I’d hardly be surprised if they did, Lamorak,” he says.

“But a foreign agent? One that they have no control over?”

“Can’t you see the allure?” Merlin presses. “No need to train up one more man. Intimate knowledge of Kingsman’s systems. The possibility of taking out a threat to their plot before it’s even realized.” It’s fucking Charlie Hesketh all over again, except if they get Eggsy back Merlin’s not sure the lad would ever be able to forgive himself.

“I suppose,” Lamorak says. His eyes drift closed for a moment, snapping open guiltily, but Merlin is human. He has compassion.

“Get some rest, boyo,” he says. “The sooner you get better, the sooner we can put you out there again.”

Lamorak nods once, already sinking into the sheets, and Merlin takes care to roll out as quietly as he can. If Lamorak is going to go back out into the field as soon as possible, then Merlin had better figure out what direction to send him in.

 

-

 

Enter: Harry.

Harry Hart is possibly the only person who loves Kingsman, who loves Eggsy, more than Merlin. Kingsman is their family and their home and Eggsy is the one who rose above again, and again, and again, not letting his circumstances define him. This is why Merlin’s a bit surprised when Harry enters his office without knocking, digging into yet another chip, jacket over his arm and umbrella in his hand. “I’d rather thought you’d forgotten,” he says.

Merlin doesn’t even flinch. Years of having Harry burst into his office has whittled his startle reflex down. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Physical therapy,” Harry says bluntly.

“We’ve a missing agent, Harry.”

“That doesn’t excuse you from your own personal duties, Hamish,” Harry replies easily, and Merlin pulls a face though he doesn’t look away from the chip. Pulling out his real name is just plain _dirty_.

Dirty, yet effective. Harry’s not going to let this go. “Let me finish with this chip,” Merlin says.

“So that you can destroy yet another valuable piece of evidence in a vain pursuit of something you don’t already know? No.”

“Harry—”

“Your entire life can’t come to a halt simply because we’re missing an agent,” Harry says, hanging his umbrella on the doorknob so that he can pull his jacket on. “This isn’t the first time that a Kingsman has gone missing. It’s not ideal. But we’ve done all that we’ve can for now, so—for now—life continues, as normal.”

“You can’t lock me out of my computers,” Merlin says testily.

A triumphant gleam appears in Harry’s eye. “Maybe I personally cannot,” he says, “but I’m Arthur. As such, I know people who _can_.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Harry takes his umbrella from the doorknob, tapping it against the bottom of the door before he turns. “Five minutes, Merlin, else I will have to insist that two of our agents are diverted from more important matters in order to get you outside.”

“Damn it, Harry—”

“Remember your training,” Harry says, and then the door closes quietly behind him.

Merlin slumps into his chair, glaring at the microchip he’d been working on. It’s fruitless, of course; he’s gotten everything he could’ve expected to get out of them, plus a little bit more that Mr. Vorsacek hadn’t counted on anyone being able to retrieve.

Merlin can’t do much, and he’s exhausted all of his resources for now. He looks down at his legs, at the chair, and he sighs.

He can’t do much in his present condition. He _can_ go to physiotherapy.

Remember his training, indeed.

 

-

 

Eggsy has been off-grid for a week.

_(A cheeky grin. “Lookin’ good, Merlin.”)_

In amidst the microchip drama, Gawain and Bors are also sent to cover up what would be a devastating scandal for the Prime Minister’s family if it ever got out. Not that it shouldn’t get out, Merlin thinks, but the man should at least have the bollocks to tell his wife and his family first.

A tense eye is also kept on the situation between Russia and Ukraine. Percival offers to go to Kiev on a more permanent basis, but Harry can’t agree to that. Not while there’s no pending escalation. They send him to Seoul instead to coordinate with the local authorities; Percival is anxious, and he needs to keep busy. Merlin isn’t quite relieved to see him go, but there’s a little less nervous energy lurking around his lab. It makes it marginally easier to concentrate—not that there’s much else for Merlin to concentrate on.

_(Is it wrong that all he dreams of is Cambodia?)_

Eggsy has been off-grid for two weeks.

He attends physiotherapy, Harry at his side and pushing him on when he wants to collapse into a jumbled mess of exhausted limbs. It’s hard work, distracting work, but slowly he starts to see the fruits of his labour. His thighs and pelvic muscles and abdominals grow stronger. It slowly becomes easier to walk, and the prosthetics are…growing on him. “They’re not like my legs,” Merlin tells Ginger as they video chat one day, and she smiles kindly.

“Of course they’re not,” she replies. “Nothing else will be. But you’re still trying.”

He knows without her saying it that she’s proud of him for trying. That they all are. And that, more than any commentary from Harry, is what pushes him forward.

Separately, without Harry, he starts attending a counselling session here and there. Not often, or in anything resembling a schedule, but there’s too much coming up for Merlin to have a hope of managing it on his own. It’s hardly the first time that he’s sought out therapy as a Kingsman, and it undoubtedly won’t be the last—sometimes things start popping out of the boxes that he has them neatly organized in, and it’s good to talk things out.

_(His hands tremble almost imperceptibly as he sprays the freezing spray. Sweat beads on his forehead, runs down the back of his neck. It’ll be a miracle if it lasts as long as he needs it to.)_

Eggsy has been off-grid for three weeks.

Tilde is in the country for a formal event, representing Sweden, and Merlin and Roxy steal away for the afternoon to have tea with her. It’s one of the first times that he actually wears his new legs out in public; he still sticks to the chair, more or less, but every now and then with Roxy’s support he will stand and walk.

Tilde is handling it as well as anyone would if their lover disappeared on “secret saving the world business”, as Eggsy phrases it all too often. She’s worried, but buried beneath the worry is an unshakeable belief that Eggsy will return to her. To all of them.

It matches the fire in Roxy’s eyes, the determination in Merlin’s heart.

_(“Remember your training,” Merlin tells Eggsy, foot like lead on the landmine. Like if he decreases the pressure even the tiniest bit, it’s all over.)_

Eggsy has been off-grid four weeks, and they finally catch a fucking break.

They don’t realize it’s a break, at first. Percival overhears mumblings of a top-secret weapon that the North Koreans are developing for “a Russian”. He starts investigating more whilst giving Harry the bare details of what he’s up to—Merlin has to admit, the man has balls when it comes straight down to it—but his search is fruitful. “A Russian” is Vorsacek, the “top-secret weapon” are the microchips, and there’s an “ornery British spy showing surprising resistance in Thailand” that must be Eggsy.

Merlin glances at Harry, who’s looking at Percival’s feed thoughtfully with a hand on his chin. “You needn’t look so pleased with yourself,” he says.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Pleased with myself? Whatever for?”

“The lad’s still your recruit, Harry.”

“Of course I’m pleased that he’s surprisingly resistive,” Harry says.

“I was more referring how he seems to be taking after you in the ‘ornery’ category, but that is neither here nor there.”

Harry ignores him. Merlin’s not surprised. He lowers his hands back to his sides. “Could you patch a call through to Statesman?”

“Of course.”

Champ answers not a minute later. “Arthur, Merlin,” he greets with a nod, because an American gentleman is still a gentleman. “Do you have any news?”

“We believe we’ve located our missing piece,” Harry says, “but we only have a general location. As it will be a few hours yet before we can have an agent on route, would we be able to borrow a drone for reconnaissance?”

“Absolutely,” Champ says. “Whereabouts we looking?”

“Thailand. The city of Chiang Mai.”

Champ nods absentmindedly, listening to someone speaking to him off call, and then says, “Sounds good. We’ll have something for you within the hour. When will you be sending your agents?”

“As soon as I’m done speaking with you. I’ve already debriefed those who will be going.”

What? The only people who know are Percival, Harry, Merlin, and Roxy, who had popped in as soon as she’d heard Percival had news (quite quickly, if Merlin’s being honest. He had been surprised at how quickly she appeared). Marlin throws Harry a curious glance, but Harry ignores him. “Thank you again, my friend,” Harry says.

Champ winks at him. “Anytime.”

He disappears. Merlin stands on steady and sore legs, stepping forward so that he can stand beside Harry. He’s not quite the height that he was before, more level with Harry than just slightly taller than him, but he’s still standing.

He never would’ve fathomed it from his bed in Sweden.

“Merlin,” Harry acknowledges, a wry twist to his mouth that betrays just how pleased his is that Merlin is standing.

Merlin doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “What do you mean you’ve debriefed those who will be going? You can’t pull Percival out of South Korea so suddenly, and the only others who know are myself, you, and Roxy—”

Harry cuts him off with a look, both eyebrows raised, and _oh_. Of course. Harry wouldn’t ask his agents to do something he himself would not do. More than that, this is Eggsy. Harry would move heaven and hell to get that boy home safe.

He’s not the only one.

“Roxy is getting the plane ready,” Harry says. There’s a curious glint in his eye that Merlin, for all his experience reading this man, can’t get a grasp on. Not until he says, “Will you be joining us?”

Merlin’s muscles tense so tightly it bloody _hurts_. A muscle in his cheek tics as he fights down the urge to say _no_ right away. He can at least phrase it better than a petulant two-year-old. “Harry,” Merlin says easily, “you don’t need me out there, not if you and Lancelot are going.”

“I disagree,” Harry says, smoothing down the front of his jacket.

For all of his work in physiotherapy and counselling, the thought rises up Merlin’s throat ugly and unwelcome. “I’m not whole, Harry. I’ll just be a liability.”

“Whether you’re whole or in parts, I don’t care,” Harry counters. “You’re our wizard. I realize you won’t be able to accomplish as much as you would’ve before, but that’s because you need more _time_."

And then the bastard looks Merlin right in the eye, sincerity oozing out of every pore. He says, quietly, “I’ll be the judge of who we need and don’t need on missions. For this one—we need you.”

 _For what?_ Merlin thinks, but he swallows it back. Swallows everything back, eyes focussing on the wall just over Harry’s shoulder. He takes deep, steady breaths, trying to pull back from the edge of _I can’t do this he can’t ask this of me._

Half a year ago, he could’ve done it.

“The plane will depart in approximately one hour,” Harry continues, voice slightly strained like even that hour is too long. “I won’t force you to come if you don’t have to; you’ll be just as capable working from here. But there are very few people I’d rather have at my back.”

“Even if they can’t stand for very long?” Merlin says bitterly, because as much as Harry’s platitudes are _nice_ there’s no way Merlin being in the field will be anything other than an unequivocal disaster. Harry, however, nods, smile springing onto his face.

“That’s why we have Lancelot,” Harry says. “One hour. With or without you.”

Harry leaves without any prompting, forever loving to get the last word in. Merlin collapses back into his chair, elbows on his knees.

An hour later, he ignores the triumphant look from Harry as he climbs the steps of the plane.

 

-

 

This was a mistake.

It was a bloody fucking _mistake_ , but Merlin can’t back down now.

He and Harry and Roxy form a triangle of sorts as they move through the hallways of the apartment complex Champ managed to locate Eggsy in in the heart of Chiang Mai. They managed to enter the building without little fuss, but the further _down_ that they progress the more resistance they run into. The more resistance they run into, the more that Merlin’s thighs ache, but his hand stays steady.

Their intel for this location had been shoddy, so Merlin isn’t surprised at the resistance. He hates a rush job, especially one that requires valuable resources with no guarantee of success, but Eggsy has been missing for a _month_.

They aim to injure and knock out if they can, not to kill. The people in this building are the only lead that they have in regard to Vorsacek, even if the man nor any other important seeming people appear to be present. No, they turn a corner and there’s a door that Merlin hacks open as Roxy and Harry put down three more people that are after them, and then Eggsy is there.

They’re too late to prevent physical damage, obviously, but there’s a slightly crazed look in Eggsy’s eye that means he’s going to be subjected to Harry-ordered therapy for longer than he wants to be. The lad still manages to focus his eyes on them for all that he’s swaying in his chair, and he says, “You’re late.”

Roxy rushes forward to undo his bindings as Harry kneels in front of him. Merlin does one circle around Eggsy and then comes closer to start doing medical scans. The scar on the back-right side of Eggsy’s neck sticks out like a sore thumb.

“We came as soon as we could,” Roxy replies.

“Well, it’s too late for the fucking chip they put in me, isn’t it?”

“From what we heard,” Harry says, doing a concussion check on Eggsy so subtle Eggsy doesn’t even realize it’s happening, “you put up quite the fight.”

Shouting comes from down the hall towards them; Merlin, facing the door, has the best angle. He puts his clipboard on a nearby table, draws his gun, and neatly takes care of their two visitors. Eggsy whistles lowly, then startles.

“Merlin! You’ve got legs!”

“Yes, well, you miss a lot in a month,” Merlin replies, resuming his work.

Eggsy groans, head swinging down. “A fucking month. Tilde’s going to kill me.”

“I think she’ll be quite alright to see you alive,” Harry muses. “As are we all. We’ll have to debrief about the chip’s effect on you once Merlin has it out—”

“The chip didn’t have any effect on me,” Eggsy says quietly.

“How on earth,” Harry starts, brushing hair away from Eggsy’s forehead, and Eggsy smiles with bloody teeth. Merlin wracks his brain for what the underworld had been saying about the _ornery British spy_ —what was it? He was showing surprising resistance?

“What do you mean, lad?” Merlin asks, moving beside him, eye still on the chip scar. Merlin hasn’t found anything to suggest that the chips are like Valentine’s signal blockers, but he’s not about to be surprised.

“Well, it’s like the mind control curse in Harry Potter, isn’t it?” Eggsy says, looking oddly proud of himself, and Merlin raises an eyebrow as he reads over the lad’s vitals but Roxy curses in thinly veiled appreciation, working on Eggsy’s wrists.

Merlin’s thighs are continually reminding him of their existence—he’s not yet stood this long on the prosthesis—but he turns his attention towards Roxy. “Care to share, Lancelot?” Merlin asks.

Disbelief falls over her face like a curtain, like it’s unfathomable for them to be unaware of _Harry Potter_ , but being a Kingsman agent doesn’t lend itself to having a lot of recreational time to read. Keeping up with the technological advancements of the last twenty-five years, never mind staying ahead of them, has been nothing short of a personal victory for Merlin. He’s not going to apologize for not reading Harry Potter.

It takes Roxy a while to figure out how, exactly, she wants to frame her statement, long enough that even Harry looks up at Merlin with a bemused grin. Roxy, finished untying Eggsy, leans back on her heels and says, “A person could throw off the Imp—mind control curse. With enough practice, and time.”

“And they made it fucking easy, Rox, like you wouldn’t believe,” Eggsy slurs as Harry helps him up. Roxy goes to support his other side because Merlin is in no condition to help, either. Not like that. “They started with little things, like trying to get me to walk across a room or jump or whatever, and it wasn’t long before I’s asking myself, ‘why the hell do I want to do that?’ So I started subtly throwing them off, like, so when they tried to get answers about Kingsman or Harry they—well, they had to work a little harder for it.”

“No doubt casting doubts in regard to the quality of their product as well,” Harry muses as they head towards the door. Weapon drawn, Merlin takes lead as they head out into the hallway; they may have taken care of everyone they could, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t reinforcements coming. “Brilliantly done, Eggsy.”

Eggsy, labouring under the weight of his injuries, still manages to preen a bit. “Thanks, Harry. But it’s not a permanent fix—” 

“No,” Harry agrees, “but it buys us _time_. And, as Kingsman agents, we never object to a little bit more time.”

“Well spoken, Arthur,” Merlin interjects, popping around a corner before ushering them behind, “but the first thing _I’ll_ be doing with my newfound time is wresting that damn chip out of Eggsy’s neck.”

“There better be no _wresting_ involved,” Eggsy grumbles, groaning as Roxy jostles him when she laughs, and Merlin highly doubts that there will be but it never hurts to prepare the agent for the worst.

It’s not all better. They still have no answers for the Vorsacek problem, and Merlin’s thighs are fucking aching, but the more they discover the closer they come. And Merlin knows now more than ever that he is crucial to this organization—

Even without his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL THIS WAS FUN.
> 
> Like I said, I have an idea for my next fic. The first chapter might be going up sooner than I think, but I'm not going to be adhering to any posting schedule. I will promise you I won't start something I don't intend to finish. Basic premise: Gymnast!Eggsy is competing in the London 2012 Games, where there's been a threat. His mom starts dating a loser named Dean Baker, who gives Eggsy the worst sort of feelings. He keeps running into this "Harry Hart" guy.
> 
> It's very developed, as you can tell.
> 
> If you want to keep up with me: freshairandspearmint on tumblr. Thanks for indulging my inability to leave Kingsman alone. I blame "No Time For Emotion". And Merlin.


End file.
